prompt archives
by We'reAllABitOdd
Summary: A collection of oneshots based off of random prompts. There may be ships, AUs, anything else, all of that good stuff. Stories will range between K and T and, generally, should be 1k words at least.
1. little things

_Little things annoy you, but today it's the opposite. You start noticing beauty in little things._

Keith had always hated those little things in life, the things that didn't matter, yet always just seemed to be there. They had no purpose. They just stuck around for the sake of it.

He just ignored them mostly, pretended neither they nor their futility existed.

It worked for the most part. It was easy to bypass them most of the time. But every now and then someone would feel the need to point them out, call them beautiful or interesting.

He couldn't understand it. Why would anyone care about the things that didn't matter?

There was so much more to care about, important things that kept you alive and economically afloat and mentally all there. Sometimes even keeping a reign on the simplest of things was immensely difficult so he just couldn't comprehend the drifting of people's minds.

At least he couldn't until he joined the garrison.

It was a fairly big school, filled with boys who all wore the same thing and, in Keith's perception, were the same in every other feasible way as well. It was a belief he felt fine in holding. It was hardly as though he spoke to them then or he ever found it fathomable he would in future because he didn't find it easy or comforting to make and be around friends.

But then he saw two boys who seemed to be separate from all of the others and he wasn't sure why.

The first of the two figures cast the other into a shadow that hid it from a very confused Keith at first. He was large, both tall and broad, but not intimidating. There was something akin to the look of a deer in the headlights in his dark round eyes at the time that Keith would later realise had never faded away, like it was a permanent quality of his. Those same eyes shone with both passion and intelligence as he spoke animatedly to his marginally shorter friend who Keith could see nothing of at that moment besides the thin legs intermittently becoming visible behind much thicker limbs.

Then the two had rounded a corner and drawn a little closer to Keith who could hear their conversation becoming clearer. The first thing Keith could tell was that the glimmer in the large boy's eyes was not deceptive: he spoke with such great intelligence and knowledge and commitment Keith was instantly convinced not a single teacher would grow to feel any ounce of dislike towards him.

Then his friend became visible.

All Keith could see were the small details. And he wished he could say he hated them. But he couldn't. He was somewhat enamored, in fact.

It began with angles, sharp and drastic yet elegant and graceful. The way they blended together was so pleasing Keith felt he could sit and stare at them all for a hundred years. It then turned into colour; first was the hideous obligatory orange of the uniform, but then it was the coco of soft-looking hair, the coffee of smooth, blemish-free skin, and the glittering topaz of mischievous eyes.

Next came the curves. That of the lopsided grin that broke every so often in a chuckle or comment. Then that of the eyes and narrow eyebrows. That of the slightly disobedient hair.

There was a sort of grace to this boy with his long thin limbs and angles that almost looked as though they had been an artist's stylistic choice.

There was something to the grace that made Keith wish he hadn't noticed it because, from that moment, he noticed all of the small details of everything. And he no longer despised them.

He liked the gentle, subtly therapeutic way the metal doors that lined the hallways closed with a minimal yet always noticeable noise.

He liked knowing that there was a stain on Iverson's shirt or a patch of his beard that was missing when the man tried to lecture him about how much he was wasting by deciding he had a life that could not be restricted to that classroom.

He liked that he could better himself, both in learning and fighting, when he noticed small bumps and imperfections.

He wished he could hate the way the desert outside was no longer a large swatch of colour, rather a detailed landscape that stretched until it met with the sky that was always flecked with the tiniest sections of cloud.

He wished he could hate the way that, suddenly, there was a distinct difference between Taylor who shared a room with him and Edward who say next to him in most lessons.

He knew he hated the way that, compared to everyone else who had grown into their own person in his eyes rather than just a collection of shapes, his memory of Takashi Shirogane suddenly felt so violently bare that it made Keith feel as though he had sent him off again. How could he send him away again if he had never gotten him back?

As time went on, Keith became more used to the small details and he realised Takashi Shirogane would likely never be coming home and he could feel himself coming apart. He could feel the growing chill in the corridors that her more and more barren as every new day passed.

He had passed the boy one day who had managed to make him appreciate what he had once so despised, Lance McClain was his name, as the other stood in a corner, a phone pressed to the side of his face as he spoke rapidly in another language.

Gone was much of that elegance, replaced by an almost cinematic anger persistence and passion that filled his voice, face and body.

Keith couldn't understand a word of what he said but he could tell he was fighting to stay at the school, likely with a parent. It didn't really matter what the other boy did in Keith's mind, he'd be gone soon anyway. There'd be no chance to miss him.

And soon after Keith retreated back into the hot desert, finding refuge in a small empty cabin within which he began to plan because he refused to leave the friend, who he still could not think of clearly enough, behind.

 _Meanwhile, Lance McClain realised something: whenever he saw Keith's name hastily scribbled away and replaced with his own, or when Iverson decided to remind him that it was the case, he felt like a very little thing._

 **A/N** **So these are just little writer's block oneshots. This was Klance but most of them won't be - there will probably be a lot of au in this because they are all written from randomly generated prompts which are included at the top. I hope you enjoyed this because it's pretty easy and very fun so I will likely update often, most of these will probably be longer too. However, this is done on my phone so I am very sorry about typos.** **constructive criticism is always welcome.** **All the best,** **~We'reAllABitOdd**


	2. What ever happened here?

_Standing on your balcony, you notice something peculiar across the street._

Hunk Garrett was standing on his balcony, dressing gown tied tightly around him as he watched the gradually growing darkness around him. He watched the stars appear above him, noting the constellations he knew and could see, and seeing if he could invent his own images from the clusters of stars.

Then he looked down and saw something he wished he could forget. There was a figure, covered in masses of black fabric that left it's frame unrecognizable, something scarlet and suspiciously blood-like soaking said clothing.

He considered going to the police as he quickly ducked inside and hoped he hadn't been spotted by the hurriedly dashing figure. But he then began to reconsider. He had a few friends, Pidge and Keith, who had been witnesses to a crime before and had gone to the police only to be treated as suspects until the culprit was actually caught.

He knew he couldn't deal with that, that the anxiety would come rushing in and he would breakdown and make himself seem suspicious even though he wasn't. He began to panic more and more, quickly convincing himself heading to the police station was an awful idea and he shouldn't go through with it.

He just hoped no one had been murdered.

He woke up the following morning and went about his day as normally as he could with the nagging fear and anxiety stirred by the previous night refusing to leave him be. He sat down at his small dinner table in the dimly lit kitchen with a bowl of cereal before him, large spoon in hand and slippers on his feet.

Just like usual, he drowsily punched the power button on his TV remote and watched the old box slowly sputter to life. Static noisily flashed across the screen before, bit by bit, the news flickered on. That's when Hunk felt his heart stop and drop to his feet as though it were a rock. His prayers had not been answered.

"Gruesome murders of husband and wife on the outskirts of Garrison City. The MO matches that of a serial killer recently active in the Caribbean though it is yet to be determined whether the killer is the same. More on the story as it develops."

Hunk then decided it might be a good idea to consult a friend on which course of action he should take because turning a blind eye didn't seem so okay any longer. He dressed quickly, leaving the house after almost forgetting his keys and feeling like he probably looked as though he had gotten dressed in the dark (which he admittedly had) to stop at the coffee shop Keith worked at so he could ask his friend for his opinion.

Keith was strange in the way that, when it came to his own life, he was rash, impulsive and made bad decisions, but, when it came to friends, he was helpful, thoughtful and considerate. Though Hunk did have to wonder if he'd have any advice for that particular, very strange situation; it might be pushing even Keith's boundaries for weird and best left alone. As far as Hunk knew no one had ever so much as approached that boundary before. He wasn't all too eager to be the first to try.

He fumbled his keys as he locked the front door that always squeaked like an aggravated cat before dropping them all together. They clattered across the floor and, as he went to pick them up, the door to the apartment next to his opened.

From behind it, his new neighbour stepped out, empty boxes piled high in the tall strangers arms. He placed them down, moved a strand of brown hair from his dark blue eyes and picked up Hunk's keys before Hunk himself got a chance.

He suddenly let out a warm, good natured chuckle as he saw the keychain of that picture Hunk and all of his friends had taken at graduation where they had pulled the most ridiculous poses they could fabricate on the spot. It wasn't quite the miracle he needed, but it did calm Hunk down considerably. So, when the keys were handed back to him, he responded to the lopsided smile with an open grin.

"Hi,' the stranger smiled wider as he took Hunk's hand into a firm handshake "I'm Lance. I guess I'm your new neighbour!"

Hunk returned the favour and introduced himself.

It was only a moment later he found himself being ushered into Lance's apartment. It was clear he really hadn't been there for very long: he was mostly unpacked but there was the odd box here and there still taped shut and labelled in Spanish, not to mention that Lance himself smelled clean and fresh and beachy but the apartment didn't smell of anything at all.

They walked past the entrance hall and the pictures hung on its walls - the family photos that let Hunk see a fairly large family without a father and a smiling kid who was presumably Lance who wore shorts and a t-shirt in every one that left the bright plasters on his legs and arms visible, as well as an embroidered welcome sign also written in Spanish - into the small living room.

Hunk was seated on the small sofa and handed a cup of tea and store bought cookie, both of which he graciously accepted, while Lance seated himself, cross legged like a child, on the armchair across from him, nursing his own tea. He placed his cup on an upturned box that seemed to be functioning as a coffee table and clasped a cushion against his body. As he moved the sleeve of his jacket rode up and hunk could spot a bright plaster on his wrist. He supposed some people didn't change.

They sat and talked for a while over the gentle rumble of the washing machine in the other room.

"So, where are you from?" Hunk asked when a lull cropped up in their conversation.

"Cuba," Lance responded with a nostalgic sort of haze passing over his face "as you can see, there is a lot of Spanish around here,"

"There is," Hunk agreed "but I'm surprised, you don't have an accent,"

"I grew up in Varadero - it's a tourist hotspot. I was always an extroverted kid so I'd try to speak to them a lot, and I was always getting hurt so they helped me out a few times, I guess I picked English up pretty young,"

"I guess you did,"

Hunk sipped his tea and looked about the room, eyes catching piles of books that had yet to be given a place to sit, so just stood, stacked in the corners. He noted there were a few reoccurring themes in the titles of those that were in English - crime, flight and space travel.

Sitting in this stranger's apartment, Hunk had completely forgotten the reason he had left the house and it was probably best he had because it was almost as though he had been relieved of a great weight.

After an hour that seemed more like ten minutes, there was a firm knock at the door. Hunk turned to look in its direction but Lance just ignored it, everything about the action very much deliberate. He turned his head as though looking out of the small window that acted as a gateway between the building and the expansive city below.

Then there was another knock. The words "This is the police," accompanied it. Still, Lance made no move to answer.

It was then that Hunk suddenly caught a glimpse of Lance's mildly distorted reflection on that window. And he was sure that wasn't Lance.

It wasn't his face. His eyes were smiling not cold and cruel. His smile was goofy and lopsided not wide and chilling. He conveyed an attitude of welcoming friendliness not an off putting one that made Hunk very eager to escape his vicinity.

Mere moments later the police broke down the door to an empty apartment.

No one knows what happened in that abode nor what ever did become of Hunk Garrett after that day…

 **A/N** **I don't know quite why this got kind of dark (it's not that bad, especially by my standards but I still don't know where it came from) but it did. I also don't 100% know why I made the decisions I did but I did so…** **All the best,** **~We'reAllABitOdd**


	3. The blessings of a liar

_You live in a world where each lie creates a scar on the liar's body. The bigger the lie, the deeper and larger the mark. One day, you meet someone that only has one scar; it is the biggest one you have ever seen_

.

Wherever you went you would see scarred flesh; the little marks peppered the bodies of everyone capable enough of speaking to tell lies. Almost every teenager spent their time with little trails of blood oozing across their skin, suddenly changing from almost pristine children to tainted creatures. Well, most of them - some children were not pristine or even close, some children lied like they feared the truth - some of them did.

Keith's skin was more scar tissue that untouched flesh - it wasn't uncommon - and he had long forgotten where 99% of the marks had come from. His brother had more marks than he did but a better memory of their origins - Takashi hadn't lied much as a child or even a teenager but he hit adulthood and suddenly the marks started to sprout as though there had been seeds planted all over his body. There was one right across the middle of his face, wide and forever sore, that Keith could remember watching slice itself into delicate skin.

"It's okay - I can do this,"

It was old but still looked as new as the day it appeared.

Keith loved to swim even if it meant that he was bearing most of his scars for people to see. It wasn't like he was any different from anyone else.

So Takashi took him swimming every Sunday. That day was no different.

They arrived at the swimming centre before noon and changed before the afternoon influx came rushing in. Together they walked to the pool side and were instantly met with hushed whispers and confused, possibly even fearful, eyes that all seemed to flit to the same place; a young man - likely Keith's age - sat by the poolside with his back to them. He was alone.

Keith wondered what the problem was, the man's narrow back was light brown and blemish-free - it wasn't strange to have parts of the body that the scars didn't touch. Then he stood and Keith could see the back of his legs - also blemish-free. Now that was odd. The backs of his arms were the same, as were his nimble pianist's hands. Then he glanced over his shoulder, his attractive, angular face was also blemish-free.

Keith watched, confused, as the muttering crowd began to make sense to him. The other man ignored it, like he was used to it. Keith supposed he would have to be.

Keith turned away from the strange man and jumped into the pool, swimming laps of front-crawl as though he were racing Takashi who instead opted for a leisurely breaststroke. The movement of the water and noise of splashing children drowned out the murmurs and he was glad it had. He stopped after the fifth lap and watched the swimmer in the lane next to him.

The man sped through the water like he was made to be in it, his long, smooth limbs cut through the water and propelled him at an incredible speed that Keith could only hope to match.

Smooth limbs.

Was it the man from before?

Keith got his answer when the swimmer came to a stop next to him, breathing slightly heavily as he held himself flush against the wall, feet far from capable of touching the floor beneath them. He calmed his breathing and turned to Keith with his perfect skin and smiled.

Not sure how else he could respond, Keith smiled back unsurely, feeling the movement tug slightly uncomfortably at the small scar that stretched between his upper lip and nose.

"Hi," he said kindly. Keith returned his greeting.

"I'm Lance," the young man said as he reached his right arm across the barrier dividing the lanes in an offer of a handshake. As Keith took his hand in a brief shake he saw what exactly the fuss had been about.

Where Lance reached over his torso had pulled away from the wall and left the tail-end of a wide, diagonal scar on his ribcage visible. It was bright red and ragged in the way that scars from repeated lies tended to be.

But he'd never seen such a large scar. Not on anyone. Not on the criminals that hung around in back-alleys or the clearly corrupt politicians broadcasted over the airwaves. Certainly, he had never seen something nearly so large on someone without any other scars.

He caught himself staring and forced himself to look elsewhere. Takashi swum up in the lane next to him and looked between the two of them before forcing Keith to be caught between a mildly awkward introduction.

They hauled themselves out of the pool and talked for awhile before Takashi proposed the idea that Lance joined them for their weekly post-swimming lunch at the nearby cafe.

"The one with the really good coffee?" he asked.

"That's the one,"

"If it's not a problem,"

"No, not at all,"

Keith had to wonder why he hadn't been involved in the discussion at all but had to admit that he didn't really mind. Lance seemed nice and he was just itching to know how he got that scar. Not that he could ask - it was considered an invasion of privacy to ask - but he could always hope Lance might mention it himself.

They sat around a round table in the back of the cafe, sinking into overstuffed chairs of varying bright hues that certainly didn't match the intricately patterned wallpaper (would anything match the wallpaper?). The lights on the ceiling illuminated the room with a slight yellow tinge that flickered routinely as the lights did the same. There was writing on the tables and walls that Keith had added to several times - the old owner insisted her guests left notes. He noticed his handwriting, large and sharp and uneven, next to much smaller, looping handwriting that slanted down and seemed like it should join up but didn't. He noticed that it was signed off by a Lance. He was certain it was the very same that sat across from him, sipping on the largest mug of black coffee Keith had ever seen. He didn't know anyone else who would order a large from that cafe.

They sat there for a good 45 minutes and Keith knew more about Lance than he did before - like his phone number, social media handles and the fact that he worked as a doctor in the local hospital - and Lance knew that Takashi worked for the police and Keith taught self-defence, but Keith hadn't even encroaches on the topic of Lance's single scar. When Lance wore his shirt, Keith couldn't see the violent mark but he knew it was there and kept wanting to trace its arching shape with his fingers just to see if it hurt Lance as badly as he hypothesized it must.

He talked to Lance regularly and never found out how he got the scar, not until almost 6 months later.

He rushed into the hospital in a panic and saw Takashi laying on a stretcher, bleeding profusely, as Lance and a group of other medical professionals tried to move him onto the rolling bed without aggravating the wounds too badly.

They were bullet wounds, sustained at the hands of a dangerous criminal Takashi had been trying to track down and arrest. Now that human scum could be arrested for much worse than drug dealing.

He called out to his brother as he ran towards him, ignoring indistinct voices that may have been telling him not to, as tears streamed down his face. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried.

"Fuck, no. No. Nonononono. Takashi, don't you fucking dare - stay with me!"

His eyes flickered open, disoriented and confused and threatening to close at any moment.

"It's okay Takashi," Lance said soothingly "You're going to be alright,"

And Keith watched as the angry mark spread further, the red corner sneaking up past Lance's collar and staining his shirt with oozing blood.

Keith collapsed into him, throwing his arms around him and sobbing as the rest of the team rolled Takashi into the emergency theatre. Lance hugged him back and Keith could feel the unsteady drip of Lance's tears as they stood there, not caring how they looked.

From the other room they could hear a machine flatline.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Lance stepped back and Keith watched his tear-stained face "I could have saved him," as he sobbed Keith watched in awe.

Down the centre of Lance's face, separating the two sides vertically with a thick line, another violent, oozing mark appeared.


End file.
